


Christmas At Grantleigh

by hutchynstarsk



Category: The Professionals, To the Manor Born
Genre: Christmas, Crossover, Gen, Romantic Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-18
Updated: 2012-03-18
Packaged: 2017-11-02 03:15:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/364362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hutchynstarsk/pseuds/hutchynstarsk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>A visit from CI5 men makes Christmas at Grantleigh Manor unforgettable.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>  <i>Crossover with “To the Manor Born.”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Christmas At Grantleigh

**Author's Note:**

> I got the spelling of Marton from the grave in the last episode of “Manor,” and the spelling of Marjory from Wikipedia, as this was the one used most often.
> 
> With special thanks to for sharing her crossover idea, and to for the British check and all the help. And with thanks to those on who, in regard to this fic, encouraged me, helped with spelling, and answered my questions. :)

**Christmas At Grantleigh**

 

by Allie

 

Christmas was white at Grantleigh Manor. But otherwise, it was by no means ordinary.

Snow softened the grounds, made everything look as enchanted as it did during my girlhood holidays.

It would have been perfect, if not for the high minded government interference—specifically, CI5 and a little man named Cowley sending spies or something down to Grantleigh from London.

It’s all very well, their fine print. But I’m the one who had to live with these grubby little spies he shoved off on us, and just when I had a Christmas party to host, too.

Everything was supposed to be perfect. I’m famous for my Christmas parties. Marton is hopeless, of course, except for pouring drinks. He’s quite good at _that._

I blame Marton. It was his fault for inviting one of his old school chums. Of course such things are important. Don’t I always invite my friend Marjory—as well as several of the girls that I positively loathe? But I certainly do not invite foreigners whom people wish to assassinate. Yes. It’s definitely Marton’s fault we have these CI5 men assigned to us.

I made sure to be on hand to welcome them and tell them the rules of Grantleigh. They needed to know to whom they would answer whilst at the Manor. 

Marton was off who knows where, trotting around with a gun and our dog, Bertie. Bertie is as useless at hunting as my Marton is. They’re perfect for one another.

A horrid modern car pulled into the drive, far too fast. The gravel from the drive sprayed from under the tyres, and the driver parked at a crooked angle at the front. 

“Brabinger, remind me to have more gravel brought in. It’s looking a little thin,” I said as an aside to our faithful butler.

“Yes, madam,” said Brabinger. He’s positively perfect, better than Jeeves. I’m sure I couldn’t live, here or anywhere, without Brabinger.

I waited austerely for the two men to exit that loathsome car and enter my domain. They did. One of them wore a suit. He was handsome enough, I suppose, and better dressed than I expected, but he walked as if he owned the place, and he wore a dreadful smirk. The other one—well, he was even scruffier than I had imagined. He had wild curly hair, quite inappropriate for a manor, and he wore blue jeans and a black and red leather jacket.

“Mrs Hamilton?” asked the first man, the slightly taller of the two, giving me a rather appreciative look. 

“Mrs fforbes-Hamilton. Do get it right, young man.”

“Young man? I’m no younger than you are,” said he, giving me another frank, laughing look.

“Of course not, and I will thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head. Now, since you have entered Grantleigh Manor you’ve entered my domain. You do not answer to Marton, you do not answer to Cowley, you answer to me. If you can follow my rules, you are welcome to stay and keep Mr Whatsit safe for as long as you need to. If you break my rules, you shall find yourselves out on your ear and you can deal with your boss about the consequences.”

The first man’s face was a study, a mixture of awed admiration and a smirk he was trying to keep in check.

“Excuse me, madam,” said the second man, in a deeper voice than I expected to see from a man his size. (Why, I believe I’m taller than he is!) He moved forward, holding out an open wallet. “Perhaps you’d like to read the small print? It’s true that we answer to Cowley, and we’ll do our best to cooperate with you—we’ve already agreed to that—but if you read this, you’ll find that we do have the authority.”

“I have positively no desire to read the ‘small print.’ I know what it says—you men, you’re terribly important and in charge of everything. Well I am here to tell you there is one place where neither you nor your Mr Cowley are in charge—Grantleigh Manor. Because, gentlemen, it is a woman’s estate.”

“Wouldn’t your husband disagree?”

“Hardly. Marton leaves everything to me. A man’s home is his castle, but it’s a woman’s domain. If you remember that, you will do just fine here. Now, unless you have anything further to add, Brabinger will show you to your room.”

“Our room?” interrupted the curly-haired man. “Don’t we each get one?”

“Young man, I hardly have room for all the guests I’ve already invited. You’re lucky I don’t make you share a broom-closet!”

The man in the suit was turning strange colours from trying not to laugh. I turned to him. “Be careful you don’t hurt yourself. You’ll find you’re miles from the nearest hospital if you do. Gentlemen.” 

“Madam,” said the suited man. He inclined his head a little. “I can only say we’ll do our best to do our job and not cross you.”

“Thanks for the welcome,” added the curly-haired man in an ironic voice.

I watched while Brabinger led them away. They each turned back to look at me once, the man in the suit with open admiration, the other man with a sort of confused look. I couldn’t help wondering when he had last had a bath.

#

“Get a load of iron drawers. She rivals Cowley, mate!”

“Nah, Cowley’s no snob.” Doyle straightened his jacket self-consciously.

“Smarts, does it?” Bodie reached over and affectionately ruffled his curls. “And she’s just your type, mate.”

Doyle shoved him off. “Hardly.”

“Oh ho, won’t admit it, now? But you always go for the girls who are far too good for you. You: looking like something the cat dragged through the gutter. Them: debs of the first water, once upon a time. Now me...”

“I know, I know, anyone under fifty! _You_ fancied her, not me.”

“Oh, his feelings are bruised...” Bodie took a swat at the jean-clad bottom. 

“Married birds, not my scene,” said Doyle grumpily, dodging the slap and aiming a half-hearted kick back at his partner.

“Oi, you only fancied her. I never said you’d try to seduce her. Making her Spaghetti Benny, showing her your dance moves and stamp coll—” The rest of his speech was drowned when Doyle sprang at him and tried to put him in a headlock. 

“I’m gonna stamp your collection in a minute, mate!”

Bodie laughed.

#

I was busy with party plans for the rest of the day, and had no cause to see the men—the agents, I believe they are called—again that day. The next day Marjory came over and forcibly brought them back to my recollection. “Gosh, Aud, did you see the lovely men they sent you from CI5?” She pronounced the name of the organisation as if it was exotic and fascinating.

“Yes, and I can hardly appreciate the bureaucratic small-mindedness that requires them to send men of that calibre to my home.”

“Oh, Aud, you do talk nonsense! Have you even looked at them? They’re gorgeous!”

“Why would I have cause to look at them? I’m a married woman, Marjory, or need I remind you?” I smoothed my skirt and crossed my legs the other way. “Drinks, Brabinger,” I ordered.

“Yes madam.” He moved silently away. That’s the wonderful thing about Brabinger. He moves so utterly silently.

“Which one did you think was gorgeous?” I asked Marjory.

“Both of them! They’re, oh, so terribly athletic, and—and manly.” She flushed pink as a schoolgirl. My friend Marjory Frobisher is the best of souls, but she still gets crushes like a schoolgirl.

“I understand the one in the suit.”

“Bodie.”

“I didn’t bother to learn their names. I’m much too busy.” I waved a hand.

“You’ve been ready for the party for weeks!”

“Yes, well, they needn’t know that. They could have interrupted me from some very important business. Besides, there are always last-minute preparations necessary, as well you know, Marjory.”

“Well, not more important than this. Just think, Aud, you’re getting to help your country and play host to two gorgeous men.”

It’s a wonder she’s not married, my friend. She’s far too willing to see the best in men, and beauty where little exists.

“Very well. Consider me a positive patriot for the season.” I shook my hair back. “Now tell me, do, what you can possibly see in the one in ‘blue jeans.’” I said it like it was a dirty phrase. Of course we never wear such clothing at Grantleigh.

“He’s beautiful,” said Audrey in the reverent tones of the utterly converted. “He has such beautiful eyes, and he moves like a—a wild animal or something. Like a tiger. And you should see him in his dinner jacket. He cleans up wonderfully. He’s smashing—they both are. Are they going to be undercover as guests?” She clasped her hands together. “Can I be undercover as a guest as well?”

“Marjory, you are a guest already!”

“Oh, yes, of course.” She looked a bit dashed. 

“Anyway, I was thinking of making them work as the waiting staff, or perhaps the men who park the cars. Then I wouldn’t need to let them in the Manor at all.”

“You already let them sleep there,” said Marjory reproachfully.

“Yes, and it goes against the grain, let me tell you. This Mr Cowley has a lot to answer for, sending them down and foisting them on me.”

“On Marton, too,” she reminded.

“Yes, and on poor Marton. Don’t they know his nerves are positively overset this time of year anyway?”

“He drinks too much. You shouldn’t let him.” She clapped a hand over her mouth suddenly. “Oh, Aud, I’m sorry! It just slipped out.” 

“Nonsense, Marjory. Of course he does. I don’t say that I could stop him, or that I should even attempt such a thing. There are some things that Marton and I do not cross one another about. Specifically, I run the manor as I see fit, and he drinks like a fish.”

“Do fish drink?” asked Marjory, diverted. “I wouldn’t think they’d need to, being in water all the time.”

“Oh Marjory, do pay attention! It’s terribly important. What am I going to do with these—these grubby little government men?”

“I’d take another look at them again if I were you, before calling them grubby.” She rose. “I’ve got to go, Aud. I’ve promised to show them the village!”

“Marjory, do be careful!” I called after her, but I don’t think she heard me. Her head was lost in the clouds.

The next day Mr Whatsit arrived from some Middle Eastern country. He and Marton greeted one another as if they were dear old friends, which I suppose they are. The two men from CI5 hung around in the background looking dangerous and very out of place, even if they were both dressed in dinner jackets now. I noticed a distinct bulge that could only have been a gun. 

Dodie and Boyle, their names were. Or perhaps Bodie and Doyle. I asked Brabinger but I’m afraid his answer slipped my mind. I would ask him again later before I gave them their tasks. It’s so good to know the little people by name when you’re telling them what to do. It gives one an air of confidence that Marton’s vagaries never achieve.

#

Doyle awoke to something tickling him. His face twitched; his hand came up and swatted at it. He felt a warm hand, and some kind of plant. His eyes opened and he looked up at Bodie, grinning down above him, naughty and benign. 

“Wake up, it’s Christmas.” Bodie sat down on the edge of the bed. It swayed a bit lower with his weight. He gave Doyle’s side a friendly pat. “You look like a little kid sleeping.”

Doyle stretched, twisting under Bodie’s hand and faced up, stretching his fists towards the ceiling. “Gonna let me up?” 

Bodie shook his head, smiling. Doyle gave him a shove and threw back the covers, started to get up. 

Bodie took in the sight of Doyle’s pyjamas and smiled harder. “Tartan? How Scottish of you, mate. Cowley would be proud.”

“It was all they had.” Doyle hadn’t packed pyjamas. He’d been planning to sleep in the soft trousers and sweatshirt he’d packed, the way he usually did. But when a manor house offered you freshly laundered, warm pyjamas, who was he to say no?

“Why, what did you wear?” He craned his neck.

But Bodie was already dressed. He raised his nose in the air haughtily. “Never you mind, son.” 

They’d gone to bed at different times. Doyle hadn’t heard his mate come in. Bodie had been out with Marjory (probably eating her out of a year’s worth of scones, if Doyle knew him). Doyle hadn’t been in the mood for visits and didn’t want to play gooseberry. He’d gone to bed early and slept surprisingly well in the small room. Folded pyjamas had waited for him and a mint on his pillow; the sheets were clean and the narrow bed very soft. He hadn’t even wakened when Bodie returned, whenever that was.

“Look what I found, mate.” Bodie grinned again and twirled a bit of green at him, pushing it into his face. 

“What—” Doyle spluttered and jerked back his head, shoving Bodie’s hand away. The greenery tickled at his nose, made him want to sneeze. He shoved and Bodie retreated, waggling a sprig of mistletoe in front of him, grinning. 

“Look what I found.”

“Berk.” Doyle sprang up and punched him in the arm. Bodie laughed and stepped back. “There’s loads of it, though, mate. Comes in useful, this. Especially for me.” He twisted his face into an embarrassed, apologetic grimace. “Sorry, mate. I’ve drawn indoor duty. You’re watching the back door.” His grimace grew more apologetic as Doyle stilled, then sprung to his feet. He stalked towards Bodie on his bare feet, and aimed a fist at his partner. “You talked her into it.” 

“No mate, I’d have talked us both into it.” Bodie tightened his chest muscles and met the fist without flinching. It wasn’t a hard punch, and it was half-speed. Doyle felt the immovable strength of his partner against his knuckles, and despite everything he felt better for it: Bodie, sturdy, silly, strong, dependable, there.

Bodie reaching out to grip his arm and squeeze. “Be all right. Just for tonight, mate.” His eyes crinkled up a bit, and Doyle realised with a little jolt to his heart that Bodie thought he was really upset—and didn’t want him to be.

“’Course I will,” said Doyle, surprised, touched, and a bit unnerved to see Bodie’s concern for him so clearly delineated. 

Bodie really thought he’d be hurt to be shut out of the Christmas festivities. And in a way he was right, though Doyle hadn’t thought it would show, even to Bodie.

“Get out and let me change,” he ordered. He turned back to the bed, yanking the covers up towards the pillow, a makeshift, one-step bed-making.

“Make me,” said Bodie, and with one smooth movement, Doyle grabbed the pillow and flung it in his partner’s face.

Bodie gave a laughing snort and tried to shield his face. 

Doyle unbuttoned his shirt, smirking. “Go on, voyeur.”

“Oh, I’m a voyeur? You’re the one always bursting in on my girlfriends and me.”

“Oh, well, hard to find you alone, isn’t it?”

Bodie’s smile widened into a smirk, and Doyle realised he had just accidentally made Bodie’s arrogant, ladies’ point for him.

“Oh, go on, you!” said Doyle.

Bodie contented himself with throwing the pillow back at Doyle and leaving with a cheerful “See you, sunshine!” He pulled the door shut with finality behind him.

Doyle looked around the cheery little bedroom with its two small beds (Bodie had made his quite neatly, though not the same as it had been made last night).

Doyle stripped down, climbed into his jeans, buttoned a red dress shirt, then threw on a dinner jacket. Who said he wasn’t good enough for the manor? He regarded himself in the tiny mirror, dragged a comb back through his hair and slid into his boots.

“Bodie,” he called, leaving the room, looking around for his partner, ready to take up the banter and contests between them, even before finding the loo in this giant house.

The manor, even this part of it, smelled clean and of wood and pine needles, a very Christmassy smell.

“Breakfast,” said Bodie, appearing from nowhere and plucked at Doyle’s sleeve. He gave Doyle a conspiratorial smile. “Come on, they do a full fry-up.”

As if in a dream, Doyle followed his mate towards the kitchen, and wondered how you could be nostalgic for something you’d never had. He trailed his fingers along the wooden wall, feeling like a boy discovering something, a wonder.

#

A live orchestra played especially beautifully on the string section.

Doyle listened wistfully. He was on guard duty at the back entrance of the manor. Bodie was inside in a tux. And good old Murphy was serving drinks, completely undercover. That had been clever of Cowley.

Classic Christmas songs sounded especially beautiful from the live orchestra. He listened wistfully, wrapped his arms around himself and jiggled in place on his toes. He took to pacing trying to warm up, and kept his eyes vigilant into the surrounding darkness. 

Behind him, footsteps crunched. He turned.

“Doyle, here.” Bodie thrust a mug into his hands. “Get that down you.” It was hot and Bodie’s hands were warm. His breath showed in the cold air, mingling with the mist from Doyle’s breath.

“Oh, ta, mate.” Doyle gulped the hot toddy and set the mug down on the edge of the stones where he stood watch outside the lit up, partying manor. He felt the warmth travelling down, burning and pleasant and shivery. He rubbed his hands together and sucked in his breath. “Cheers. Cold out here.”

“Come here, mate. I’ll warm you up.”

“Bodie!” He dodged the pinch and slapped at his partner. 

Bodie gave a stifled giggle and came back at him. They scuffled a little, suppressing laughter, knuckles finding flesh, fingers finding places to tickle. 

The messing about warmed him and fixed a silly grin on his face. He flopped against Bodie, elbow raised high to rest high on Bodie’s shoulder, knowing it would be there and sturdy, and that he wouldn’t be shoved off. Bodie’s arm snaked around his shoulder. “Merry Christmas, mate. Got you a pressie.”

“Oh, ta. But I didn’t get you anything.” 

“S’okay. It’s not much. It’s on your pillow. See you.” He pushed his face against Doyle’s curls, blowing into them, ruffling hair with his warm breath. Then he released Doyle and stepped back. “Let’s catch that bloke and get home, eh?”

“Right,” said Doyle. He watched Bodie retreat back to his post. Never should’ve left it, even if Murphy was undercover as waiting staff.

Doyle squinted back towards the door and saw the slit of light showing Bodie’s silhouette for a moment. Then both disappeared as if the house had swallowed them.

Doyle turned back to face the darkness and sighed, watching. His gun lay heavy and familiar, comfortable at his side. He was starting to feel cold again already, the warmth of Bodie and the drink disappearing, bleeding into the great, empty spaces of the countryside. It felt strange to be in a place so open, not surrounded by buildings. 

He wrapped his arms round himself again and jittered on the balls of his feet. The strains of Silent Night curled out at him, wistful and nostalgic as the last taste of a Christmas pudding.

#

Marjory was glowing, especially when she looked in the direction of that Bodie character. I admit it: he cleaned up nicely. He was certainly putting on the charm for my guests—at least the female ones. I still objected to his being here at all, but at least I felt I had picked the right one for indoor work. That other one would look so very untidy about the place. 

Marjory, I could see, was quite taken in by the charm and the suit. She was getting another of her crushes. I do wish she would be more careful and not wear her heart on her sleeve.

Marton was leading me in the traditional dance (we must have one each year at the party, even if he doesn’t like it), when chaos erupted. The gods might have descended from Olympus with more decency and decorum and less interruption to my party.

There was the scruffy one, even though I had told him to stay outside. He was running quite fast through the crowd, dodging my guests, his hair bobbing wildly. He was chasing someone. Someone with a gun. I screamed, as did at least half my female guests. 

Marjory moved towards Bodie. 

The gunman headed towards the staircase, and the CI5 men shouted for everyone to get down. Bodie pulled a gun and so did one of the new catering staff I’d hired for the Christmas party.

Well, of course it was ruined! After that nothing would bring back the party spirit. Oh, they tackled the grubby little assassin, of course—not so little, really, and with quite a wild look in his eye. I didn’t like the look of him at all. I’m certain he was foreign.

Bodie shot him in the arm, and the one with all the hair tackled him. Bodie yanked his gun away, and they handcuffed him and roughly took him out of my party—but not roughly enough, if you ask me. I demanded of the waiter what the meaning of this was when he started to leave with them. He showed me his identification. Another CI5 man, under my roof under false pretences.

“Not so fast,” I ordered him. “You were hired for the party and at the party you shall stay. Clean up this mess and bring more champagne. Ladies, gentlemen.” I clapped my hands for their attention. “I am so sorry. It appears CI5 needed to crash the party. I’m sure I’ll never live it down, but if you wish to continue into the dining room, perhaps we can have our refreshments now while the staff cleans up the mess. I’m sure you’ll all wish to ask Marton and his friend about the assassination attempt. It’s dreadfully exciting, isn’t it?”

I managed to put the best spin possible on it, of course, using all the enthusiasm that Marjory would have. If she were present, of course. She had abandoned me in my hour of need to trail after the agents. Is that, I ask you, what a friend should do when my party is ruined?

#

Doyle stripped off his gun holster with movements slow like stretching. He ached from tackling the assassin, from the gut punch the man had given him catching him by surprise and getting past him and indoors. Cowley would have words to say about that no doubt. 

So had Mrs fforbes-Hamilton; but her sarcastic words hadn’t been as bad as her cutting look. He winced at the memory.

The worst of it was that he knew Bodie had been exactly right; he could’ve really fancied her, and it hurt his pride that she looked on him as so much rubbish.

Marton (and his guest) had at least been grateful, wanting to shake hands with Bodie and Doyle and ask endless questions. It was exciting for them. Doyle supposed anything would be when a Christmas party was the highlight of the year otherwise.

He remembered it—

His quick glimpse of broad stairs, shining tree, beautiful glowing candles and dancing. Champagne sparkled and the air smelled of a pleasant mix of pine, women’s perfume and canapés. There was a setup of poinsettias arranged in the shape of a Christmas tree, taller than Bodie. He closed his eyes, the image of that bright red and green poinsettia tree burned on his retinas, wistful and poignant.

“Hey mate.” Bodie nudged him. Doyle opened his eyes to see his partner staring into his face with a look of concern that he quickly tried to hide with a grin. “Dozing off, are we? Where is your stamina, Raymond?”

Stamina. “That girl,” said Doyle, scowling at him. “Marjory. You’re not...?”

“Relax, Ray. I’m not such a cad. We’re strictly platonic.”

“Good.” Most women could handle themselves where Bodie was concerned; Doyle couldn’t go around protecting the world from his oversexed partner. But Marjory seemed special, a woman with an innocence you didn’t see every day. In fact, Doyle hadn’t thought it existed anymore. He didn’t want to see Bodie take advantage of that enthusiasm and innocence. 

Anyone looking at her face would see she was smitten with Bodie. But Bodie was leaving tomorrow, and a one night stand would break her heart, Doyle felt certain. He’d always been good at understanding women—except the ones in his own life.

Doyle sat down on his bed and pulled off his boots one by one. Bodie was watching him with a little tilt to his head as if he had a silent question. Doyle was missing something, wasn’t he?

“What?” he snapped, and ran a hand back through his curls. Even his scalp ached, he felt so tired and grumpy.

“Ray, your gift.”

“My—oh, I forgot.” He rose and turned obediently to look for it. He didn’t see it on top of the neatly made bed (those maids were amazing), so he reached under the pillow and felt around. He pulled out a box wrapped in red and green striped paper. It looked small enough to be a jewellery box.

He cast Bodie a glance. His partner was smirking with open delight, almost bouncing on his toes. “Go on, open it.”

“I like to take my time.”

Bodie’s eyes were shining as he watched, looking alight and alive with pleasure. Somehow it made Doyle feel a little better about everything. His partner still liked him, even if Doyle had messed up catching the assassin before he got near the target; even if Doyle wasn’t welcome in the fancy party and belonged outside in the cold instead.

“Oh go on, open it!” protested Bodie.

Doyle grinned. He was taking absolutely as long as he could to undo the wrapping, but you could only drag it out so long on such a small box. He opened what was indeed a jewellery box. He cast Bodie another look, faintly censorious—he certainly hadn’t bought Bodie anything expensive—and opened the lid.

A silver chain lay inside, curled round itself like a sinuous metal snake. Doyle plucked it out and stared at it. Its small, cool links made his fingers feel big, warm, clumsy. A man’s silver chain, for round your neck. No decoration, just endless links together. He let it fall into his other palm, listening to the soft, satisfying sounds of the metal against itself in the quiet of the room. His mouth had gone dry.

“Bodie, I don’t know what to say.”

“Say you’ll wear it. Go on, it’s better than that steel one you’re wearing!”

Doyle blinked hard and kept his back to Bodie. He could not do this. He could not let his eyes get damp over a Christmas present, no matter how thoughtful.

“Here,” said Bodie and big, warm fingers fumbled at the back of Doyle’s neck. Doyle closed his eyes and drank in the safety of those hands undoing his steel chain, catching it and giving him a pat before reaching round. “Give it here, I’ll fasten it.”

“Ta,” said Doyle. His throat hurt. He handed the chain over his shoulder and accepted the other in return, stuffed it into his pocket and held very still, swallowing and blinking back the dampness in his eyes. 

Bodie fastened the chain round Doyle’s neck. It was cold, but it soon warmed to his flesh. 

“Now don’t you wish you’d got me something?” teased Bodie. Doyle could hear the grin in his voice, but he still didn’t dare turn round yet. You couldn’t get so emotional about a gift. It simply wasn’t done.

“Mate, you okay?” One of Bodie’s paws caught Doyle’s shoulder and tugged him around. 

He kept his face down as Bodie tried to peer into it. “Thanks, Bodie.”

“You’re never crying,” said Bodie in disbelief, leaning down and peering up into Doyle’s face. “It’s not that good a gift.”

“No,” said Doyle, smearing at his face with his sleeve. “Shut up.” He turned away, angry with himself, with the way he still was about Christmas.

“Come on, mate,” said Bodie, cajoling now. “Cheer up. It’s only Christmas, not the end of the world.” His voice was bouncy and cajoling, but his hand was gentle on Doyle’s arm.

“Thanks for the gift,” said Doyle. “I’ll get you something when we go home. I forgot, that’s all. I meant...” He smeared his face on his sleeve again.

Bodie caught him in a big exuberant hug. “Embarrassed Doyle!” he crowed. “Didn’t know you had it in you.”

“Oh, leave off!” Doyle elbowed him and got free from the octopus-like Bodie. 

Bodie was always more inclined towards playful, touching gags such as this. It used to make Doyle uncomfortable in a way he couldn’t quite express, something about too much physical contact, not his style. But he’d grown used to Bodie’s expansiveness over time, and it didn’t bother him the way it used to. Sometimes it was even nice. 

He turned to half glare, half smile at Bodie. “I’m rotten about Christmas, okay?”

“Yeah, forgetting people’s gifts, mate!” Bodie flopped back to lounge on his narrow bed and grinned up at Doyle, looking sleek and satisfied and just a bit cheeky. “What were you going to get me?”

“A packing crate for that ego.” Doyle kicked at him lightly with his stockinged foot, his smile less wobbly now. 

“Get me a toy golly. It’ll remind me of you.” 

The way Bodie’s whole face lit up when he smirked, it was hard not to smile back. So Doyle didn’t try to resist. 

“Saved some champagne. Toast the success, yeah?” said Bodie, producing a large bottle and looking pleased with himself.

“No glasses.”

“Oi, who’s a proper gentleman, then?”

He unwound the metal frame, broke the foil and eased the cork from the bottle. Bodie brought the bottle to his mouth and drank champagne straight from it, then handed it to Doyle, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “It’s the good stuff.”

Doyle didn’t ask how he’d got it. He just accepted it and drank a mouthful, feeling the bubbles pop in his mouth and tasting the tang of alcohol. 

He wanted to tell Bodie about Christmas, about the mixed up way he felt about it, homesick and mournful for things he’d never really had. He didn’t love Christmas, he didn’t hate it; he felt like it was simply not for him, and yet he wished it was. That was probably why he had forgotten Bodie’s gift. Everything about Christmas seemed complicated. He wished he could just enjoy it the way Bodie seemed to.

But the words didn’t come. He wanted to get them out, but couldn’t. Bodie wasn’t exactly encouraging confidences at the moment, instead keeping things light and blokish. Doyle knew he would regret any confidences made in the comfortable blush of champagne and exhaustion, however much they burned on his tongue now, wanting to be said.

Bodie chatted amiably about the party, the fun waiting for them back home and what Murphy had got up to. He even talked about his mother’s famous Christmas pudding—and not famous in a good way. Finally Doyle joined in, keeping the talk light, bantering instead of serious. 

At last Bodie pried the bottle from Doyle’s fingers, drank the last finger of champagne and set the bottle down on the floor with finality. “Night,” he said, and climbed into bed. Doyle struggled with his own covers, yawning so hard his jaw cracked.

They were both still wearing their clothes, not pyjamas. Doyle was too tired to change and found he really didn’t care.

“Happy Christmas, Golly,” said Bodie just before Doyle dropped off.

Ray dreamed of the poinsettia tree, pure and bright and untouchable, completely out of reach. The champagne mixed with the feeling of cold and danger from the assassin’s approach, and he woke up part way through the night, kicking his covers off, hands clenched into fists, fighting an enemy that wasn’t there.

He stilled and lay panting in the dark, unfamiliar room. He heard Bodie’s familiar snoring. He closed his eyes and slowly relaxed tensed muscles. Bodie had a distinctive snore, not too loud, a steady snore that could get right annoying on stakeouts, but had a sort of monotonous comfort to it, too.

He waited till he was relaxed and fully awake, then got up and pulled his boots on. He snuck from the room, careful to shut the door quietly. Bodie might be able to sleep through anything, but it didn’t hurt to be careful.

He found the loo eventually, padding down the unfamiliar halls at night, feeling like an intruder, a trespasser. On his way back, he detoured to the great hall, where the poinsettia tree and the decorated pine tree still stood. In the dark, they looked mysterious, melancholy and really beautiful. He stood staring for a few moments, smelling the ritual yearly pine, breathing in its fresh, heady odour. What was it about pine in the house that made you feel like an eight-year-old in stockinged feet?

He turned and headed back towards bed. He’d had the fuzzy idea of getting Bodie a pressie to wake up to tomorrow morning, but there was nowhere open tonight, no off licence or anything. 

_Get you a nice bottle of whisky and you can practice your Cowley accent drinking it, mate,_ he thought, yawning and covering his mouth.

He started past one of the sitting rooms, and hesitated. He knew for a fact they had drinks there—good drinks, too. Would it be absolutely rotten to...? 

Nah. He couldn’t steal from the manor, even if he paid for it tomorrow. Even for Bodie. Bodie saving a bottle for them from the party had been a little different, he felt certain. Reluctantly, he headed back down the hall towards bed—and found himself confronted by an elderly man with thick glasses and a worried look on his face carrying a poker, held as if he meant to swing it like a cricket bat.

“Brabinger,” said Doyle, calling the name up. “Hullo.” He stopped and stared at the man, making his posture non-threatening. The elderly man was obviously afraid.

“Mr Doyle. Excuse me.” He lowered the poker and looked abashed. “I thought I heard—”

“Sorry I woke you.” Doyle hesitated. “Um.” No. It would sound like he was asking for charity. He couldn’t possibly....

But if Bodie could wake up to a pressie, after he’d gone to so much trouble for Doyle....

“What would you say to selling me a bottle of whisky from the cellar?”

Brabinger’s brows rose and he seemed to struggle with keeping expression off his face. “We don’t charge for drinks, sir. If you would like me to get you one...” He spoke carefully, and Doyle once again had the impression these people thought of him as a knuckle-dragging mouth-breather. 

“Not for me.” He spoke patiently. “I meant to buy my friend a gift, but I didn’t have time. If I could give you the money, you could replace it after Christmas. I can’t go to the off licence tomorrow, so it would help me. Of course if you think the fforbes-Hamiltons would mind, don’t bother.”

“Oh. I see, sir.” Brabinger’s stance relaxed further. He came to a decision and nodded. “Of course. Follow me, sir. What kind of whisky would your friend like?”

“I’ve no idea, really,” admitted Doyle. “Something expensive I suppose.”

He waited with his hands stuffed in his pockets while Brabinger selected a bottle. “I believe the gentleman would like this.” He held it out towards Doyle for his perusal. 

“Fine.” He reached for it with one hand. Then hesitated. “How much?”

“Twenty pounds, sir. But I am sure Mr fforbes-Hamilton would wish you to have it as a gift.”

“No, I’ll pay.” Twenty pounds? His necklace probably hadn’t cost that much! 

Remembering Bodie’s gift made him feel warm inside, as if he’d just drunk some whisky himself. He reached for his wallet. 

“Allow me to tie this ribbon around the bottleneck, sir,” said Brabinger, turning away and fiddling with it. He turned round and handed it back to Doyle, bowing a little, looking every inch the proper butler. Doyle gave him the money and Brabinger accepted it. “Thank you, sir, though I have every belief Mr fforbes-Hamilton will ask me to return it to you tomorrow.”

“But not Mrs, eh?” Doyle grinned, holding the whisky. Somehow with a thin strip of red ribbon he’d conjured, Brabinger had made it look not just expensive but classy, and very Christmassy.

“Oh, sir, I am certain—” began Brabinger.

“Never mind. Thank you.” Doyle raised the bottle and smiled, and retreated down the hall. He wished he wouldn’t have such a chip on his shoulder in a rich place like this. Everything seemed to remind him how much he didn’t belong. At least Brabinger was nice underneath everything official.

Doyle went back to their tiny room—Bodie still snoring comfortably—set the bottle down on the side table and snuggled back into his bed. It still held warmth, and he fell back into sleep quickly this time and didn’t dream.

#

Marjory sighed heavily over her breakfast egg. 

“If you’re going to act like that I shan’t invite you for breakfast anymore,” I said.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Aud. It’s a lovely breakfast, of course. I’m just thinking about...” 

“I know very well what you’re thinking about, Marjory. It’s those two men. Honestly, anyone would think you’re still a schoolgirl. You’re far too old to be thinking of men.”

She looked at me quizzically, as if I’d said something funny. “But you’re a married woman!”

“All the more reason I don’t have to think about men anymore.” I tasted my tea and reached for the marmalade.

“Well I’m not married, so I should think I jolly well ought to think of men!”

“If you’re going to be cross, I would rather not have to look at you at breakfast,” I chastised her. “I’m glad enough that Marton isn’t up yet with his scowling face.”

“Sorry. Only, I was thinking. Do you think there’s any chance a strong, powerful man like Mr Bodie, would...”

I shook my head firmly. “No.”

“No? Oh Aud, but...”

“No, Marjory. Absolutely not. Get him out of your head. He’s not good enough for you.”

At this she looked even more depressed. I marmaladed my toast quite firmly and proceeded to tell her exactly how unsuitable a man like that would be. It didn’t seem to cheer her up. When I moved past how utterly uncultured he was onto what a dangerous profession it was, she sighed and looked wistful and concerned. What it came down to was she may as well not have eaten breakfast at all. I swear she didn’t manage even half her egg.

#

Doyle woke up trying to remember something. His bed felt odd and he seemed to be lying on something uncomfortable. He rolled over and yawned. His mouth tasted cottony. When he stretched, his hands bumped into the little table and he pulled back to keep from knocking over the lamp.

“Morning sunshine,” said Bodie, a smiling, right-as-rain Bodie sitting on the edge of the opposite bed looking as though he’d been up for hours. How unlike him! “Ta,” said he, smiling warmly at Doyle.

For a moment Doyle looked at him blankly, and then he felt a smile spreading over his face in reply. Bodie liked the whisky! 

Doyle sat up on his sore bum and stretched again. “Really shouldn’t sleep on my wallet I guess,” he observed.

He expected Bodie to make some sort of remark about pains in the arse, but he didn’t. His gaze was fastened at Doyle’s neck, and he looked quite contented. “You’re going to wear it, then?”

Doyle’s hand flew to the chain, felt the warm, silver links nestled there. “’Course, mate. What else would I do with it?”

Bodie looked really happy. He hopped up. “Great. And hey, that was clever, Ray. Pretending you forgot my gift!” Bodie smirked all the way to breakfast. 

#

I could hardly turn them away without a meal, but I instructed Brabinger that they must eat in the kitchen. From what I’d heard, they were already a favourite with Cook. I couldn’t understand how everyone was swooning right and left over them. 

I went out as they were leaving the estate to see that they truly did. Marjory was there, looking doe-eyed at the shorthaired one. He gave her a quick, smiling kiss on the cheek, looking rather like an overgrown schoolboy somehow. She turned pink and sighed with pleasure. 

The curly one—with hair like a child’s doll—was kneeling, rubbing Bertie’s ears. Bertie wagged his tail shamelessly. I regret to say that dogs are no judge of men. 

He had a wistful sort of look in his eyes—the man, not the dog. It caught me off-guard when he looked up. He blinked as if I had caught him off guard as well. He rose. “Goodbye, Mrs fforbes-Hamilton. Thanks for everything.” He started to extend a hand then withdrew it, as though remembering he’d been petting Bertie or else thinking I would snub him.

“Goodbye, Mr Doyle.” I extended my hand and shook his firmly, meeting his gaze. I didn’t want him to leave feeling like he was being kicked off the premises, even though I would be glad to see the back of them. Perhaps of him especially. There was something unnerving about that man. He simply didn’t fit out here. And his clothes were much, much too tight. They seemed designed to draw one’s eyes to places respectably married women oughtn’t to notice.

His face sparked with the first honest smile I’d seen from him. For one instant I could see just what Marjory saw in these two. 

Then Marton was there, shaking hands and playing the squire. He seemed happier than he had in some time, and I stared at him rather. Marton, happy? Over Christmas, at least, this seemed an unlikely turn of events.

Bodie shook his hand, and then Doyle, and they were all three discussing the assassination attempt. So dreadfully uncouth, but men _will_ focus on such things. 

Then I glimpsed Marton trying to slip something into Doyle’s hand. I sent him a disapproving frown. Really, it wouldn’t do to look as if we were bribing the CI5 men. One could probably end up in jail. Marton was smiling, and mouthed something that looked like “thank you.” But Doyle simply shook his curly head and smiled. He retreated to the car with Bodie. Despite their disparate looks and personalities, they moved somehow in synch, like two halves of a unit.

Marjory waved and called goodbye to them. She blew her nose rather loudly as they drove away. I let out a sigh of relief. Now peace would descend without the spectre of CI5 and unsuitable men cluttering up the place.

“I shall miss them,” said Marjory. “They were such lovely men.”

“I shan’t,” I said. “Marton, have you—” I turned to ask him about the bonfire, and caught him staring around at our ankles. “Marton, whatever are you doing?”

“I— Do you see Bertie? I can’t find Bertie.”

“Oh, but he was just here...” I stopped speaking and peered after the fast-retreating car, my gaze narrowing. “I can’t believe it. They’ve stolen Bertie! Brabinger! Get me George Cowley of CI5 on the telephone.”

“Yes madam.”

You see the sort of thing I have to put up with? It wasn’t an ordinary Christmas by any means.

Marjory ran shouting down the drive, waving her handkerchief. Marton kept calling ineffectually for Bertie.

The car reversed down the drive only moments later. They opened the door and pushed the dog out. Bertie wagged his tail and looked shamefaced, as well he might.

“Stowaway,” said Bodie, his face crinkled with a grin. Doyle put a hand to his face, fingers inching slightly into his hair, tilting his face to hide behind the hand as though he were embarrassed or perhaps trying not to laugh.

Bertie finally went to Marton and I said, “Goodbye, gentlemen!” very firmly. Marjory and I stood watch while they left, this time for good.

“Clever Bertie,” said Marjory. “I should have thought of that.”

I didn’t bother trying to talk her out of her infatuation. I still might just call Mr Cowley and give him a piece of my mind, though.

 

 

>>

 


End file.
